Sympathy for the Devil

by Justin Gustainis

  He slid the Polaroids and letter back in the envelope, replaced the envelope and money in the shoebox, and sat quietly, scratching his chin.

  There were several ways he could play this to achieve the result his new employer wanted. Each approach promised its own interesting set of repercussions.

  Greene leaned forward, started the Jaguar's engine, and watched the side-view mirror for a gap in the traffic. He would go home, relax a little, and consider the possibilities. He should be able to reach a decision by this evening; tomorrow he would act on it.

  Nestor Greene waited until there were no cars coming up behind him, then pulled away from the curb. The powerful engine took the gray Jag quietly away, like a shark moving through still water.

  Libby Chastain's perceptions were already in high gear, and she absorbed the sight of Quincey Morris's living room in one second of total, frightening, gestalt. All her senses were providing data, which her finely-trained mind processed at lightning speed.

  Smell: booze, marijuana, stale food, body odor, and vomit. Libby's nose wrinkled.

  Hearing: the idiots on TV, of course. The ever-present hum of the air conditioning. And snoring, coming from the unconscious man who lay on the couch.

  Sight: empty pizza delivery boxes, piled haphazardly in one corner. At least a dozen of those little white cartons that you get from Chinese take-out. Several of these were on the floor near a wastebasket, as if someone had tried to score points from a distance, and had not cared whether they went in or not. More cartons on the coffee table, along with two Jack Daniels bottles - one empty, the other about a third full. A small hand mirror, on which were two short lines of... cocaine? And on the sofa, snoring away like a miniature wood chipper - the man himself. Quincey Morris, scion of a long line of monster fighters, the terror of vampires, werewolves, and black witches worldwide, honors graduate of Princeton University and one of the finest men Libby Chastain had ever known. Clad now in a ripped forest-green T-shirt and faded Levis with the zipper half down, both abundantly stained. One foot bare, the other in a filthy black sock. A three or four day growth of beard on the not-quite-handsome face.

  Touch: Libby's left hand, the one not holding the wand, was curled into a fist so tight that the manicured fingernails were digging into her palm.

  Taste: It had been hours since breakfast, but there was now a definite, distinct taste in Libby Chastain's mouth, and she recognized it for what is was: the coppery taste of fear.

  Melanie Blaise sat back, her chair creaking a little. It was comfortable, but well-used and maybe a little worn down - kind of like Mac's Place itself.

  "Haven't been up to much, recently" she told Colleen O'Donnell. "Not recently. More paperwork than anything else." She smiled a little. "Can we still call it paperwork, when there's so little paper involved? Maybe electron-work is more appropriate these days."

  "Call it whatever you want," Colleen said. "It's still bureaucratic bullshit, most of it."

  "Amen to that, sister." Melanie shook her head a little ruefully. "But it's still better than staying in Akron and making my slow way up the corporate ladder at B.F. Goodrich until I'd hit my head on the glass ceiling. Of course, all I knew about the Bureau then was from movies and TV. I thought it was all going to be car chases and shootouts with desperate international criminals."

  Colleen gave her a small smile. "Disappointed?"

  "I was, a little - until my first real shootout. You can do all the arrest problems in Hogan's Alley that you want. The real thing is still different."

  Colleen nodded. "Real bullets, real adrenaline, real danger."

  "And real blood. Gabe McWirter was determined not to be taken alive. He'd gone down for bank robbery twice already, and the third conviction would be mandatory life. I guess he knew that."

  "So he got his wish."

  "Yeah, he did. I think he figured to take one of us with him, though. He ran at me, rather than Garvin. Maybe he figured a woman might hesitate, or something. Bastard looked surprised when I double-tapped him with my Glock."

  Melanie's fresh drink had arrived, and she took a sip before continuing. "I was okay, you know, while it was going down. The training really does take over, which I guess is the whole point of it. But about an hour later, I got the shakes so bad I couldn't even stand. Fortunately, I was able to get into a stall in the ladies room before it got too bad. Nobody saw anything."

  "No shootouts recently though, huh?" Colleen could still smell the fetid odor of black magic on her friend, and was determined to find out its origin.

  "Nope, which is fine with me. Garvin and I spent most of last week in court, giving testimony in the Delicata kidnapping case. Guy's lawyer seemed to think he's Perry Mason - kept each of us on the stand for-fucking-ever."

  Colleen contented herself with "Um-hmm," and waited. She didn't want to push too hard, although she would use Voice on Melanie if she couldn't get information any other way. She hated to employ magic with friends, but black sorcery is serious business. She had to know its source.

  "Oh, and we caught a dead Congressman this morning," Melanie said.

  "That must have been tricky," Colleen said. "How far did he fall?"

  "No, dummy, the guy died in his house. You know the drill - he wasn't under medical care when he croaked, so somebody had to check it out. At least it got us out of the office."

  "Whose political corpus was delecti?" Colleen asked casually.

  "Brooks, Ronald J. R-NY. From someplace upstate. I think."

  "Heart attack?"

  "Uh-uh. Freak accident. He got up in the middle of the night to take a whiz, not knowing that a leaky pipe had caused some water to pool on the bathroom floor. He was standing in it when he flicked the switch. And that's all she wrote."

  Colleen's brow furrowed. "That's not supposed to happen."

  "I bet the Congressman thought so too, in his last moments."

  "No, I mean electrical switches these days are purposely designed not to do shit like that. That's why they're made of plastic or ceramic instead of metal - they can't conduct electricity."

  "Yeah, I know. Our best guess is that the switch was defective. The widow probably has grounds for a suit against the manufacturer, if she wants to pursue it. I sure as hell would."

  Colleen frowned into her drink for a few seconds before saying, "Ronald Brooks. That name's been in the news for something recently. Did he get caught with his hand in the political cookie jar, or something?"

  "Not that I know of," Melanie told her. "But he was running for President."

  Colleen nodded. "That's where I heard his name. One of the 'Un-Magnificent Seven,' right?"

  "There's six, now."

  "Right," Colleen said, with a vague feeling of unease that she couldn't explain. "And then there were six."

  "Armageddon," Malachi Peters repeated. "That word sounds familiar, but I don't..."

  "The final battle between the forces of light and darkness," Astaroth told him. "It's supposed to coincide with the Second Coming, which I've always thought sounds like a reference to some virgin's honeymoon. In any case, it is prophesied to result in the ultimate defeat of my Lord Satan and us, his humble followers."

  "No offense, but I thought you guys had already been defeated," Peters said.

  "Yes, I know. But this is supposed to involve a deeper pit, hotter fires, and I don't know what all. The scriptural references are not exactly clear."

  "And you believe that's what happens - you lose again?"

  "Not at all," the demon said. "Or, rather, not necessarily. What the other side calls prophecy we call propaganda - a word that the Church itself invented. By the same token, even a broken watch is right twice a day."

  "So you're not sure."

  "Quite right. There is too much at stake - all we have built, both here and in Hell, over the millennia. No, if there is to be such a war, it is we who will choose the time. And the time is not now."

  "So, let's say I manage to kill Stark - then what happens?
"

  "Sargatanas will be returned home, where he will face the most obscene punishments I can devise. He is my minion, after all, and I can be very creative."

  "Why does he have to go back? You're here, in human form that you took on yourself. You didn't have to possess anybody."

  "I am permitted on this plane for one revolution of the planet. Twenty-four hours, no more. Then I must return. It is the Law."

  "Whose law? Satan's, or...?" Stark glanced toward the ceiling for a moment.

  "It is no concern of yours, worm. Focus instead on the reason why you were allowed to leave the place of torment. You must kill Stark, lest he become your pitiful country's next - and last - President."

  "Under the circumstances," Peters said, "I'm sure you won't be offended when I ask, 'What's in it for me?'"

  The demon shrugged, a little too casually for Peters's liking. "You'll be allowed to remain here, of course. One damned soul, more or less, is of no consequence. There are an uncountable number of you in Hell already, with millions more coming every day. No one will miss you, least of all me."

  "Uh-huh. Allowed to remain for how long? Until I live out my natural lifespan? Then what? Another judgment - or back to the fire, no matter what?"

  The demon laid a long index finger along his jaw and thought - or appeared to. "You know that's an interesting question. There's very little precedent for something like this, and I can't access that which doesn't exist, as I told you." He smiled at Peters without showing any teeth. "I suppose we'll just have to hold that question in abeyance, for the time being. I'm sure it will work itself out."

  Before Peters could protest, the demon said mildly, "Or, I could take you back with me right now, this very second. I'm sure there must be some other American assassin in Hell who would roast his own mother over a slow fire for the chance of even a few seconds' respite from eternal torment."

  "No, no," Peters said hastily. "It's okay. I'll take my chances."

  "A wise choice," Astaroth said. "By the by, how's your memory?"

  "Stuff's coming back," he said. "I can remember college, sort of. My parents. Signing on with the Company after graduation." He paused. "My wife."

  "Yes, the fair Cecelia. And get any thought of looking her up out of your head - she was killed by a drunk driver, in 1991."

  Peters closed his eyes, kept them shut as he said, "I see."

  "It may interest you to know, however, that she is not among our guests."

  Peters opened his eyes and looked at him.

  "That's right, Peters. She made it. All the way to the Promised Land." The last words were said with a sneer, but Peters felt his heart lift. For the first time since coming back to this world, he felt like smiling.

  "Now, then," Astaroth said, "down to brass tacks. Take a few days for your memory to return fully, as I have no doubt it will. And get yourself oriented to the Twenty-First Century. You'll find that quite a lot has changed since you, uh, left. You're no good to me, unless you're fully functional. Then get started on your task."

  "That's going to pose some problems," Peters said. "All I've only got on me is a bunch of expired credit cards and a hundred eighty-some bucks in cash. That wasn't a lot of money even in the Eighties - I imagine it's worth even less now."

  "Really?" The demon raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you should look again."

  Peters reached for his wallet and found that it felt thicker than he remembered. Opening it, he saw that it was full of bills, all of which seemed to be hundreds.

  "Five thousand dollars," Astaroth said. "And every time you open that wallet, it will contain the same amount, no matter how much you have removed from it previously. You can use it to accumulate cash, if you need to. And those credit cards, which are all up-to-date, should serve you well. Each one has a credit limit that you probably could not exceed, even if you tried."

  Peters looked. The expired pieces of plastic he'd found the last time had all been replaced with new-looking credit cards, some of which he didn't even recognize. "That seems very... generous," he said.

  "Generosity is not in my nature, as you should be able to deduce, even if you can't remember it," the demon said. "You will have expenses - you will be surprised what a truly accurate assault rifle costs these days, for instance, and the price of plastic explosive is outrageous. Besides, in order to get close to a U.S. Senator, you may have to play the part of a wealthy man. And now you are one - for the time being, at least."

  Astaroth tapped the back of Peter's hand that still held the bulging wallet. "However, if you start spending that wealth on whores and cocaine instead of getting on with the job, I'll know about it. And you will find yourself back in Hell so fast, it will makes your ears bleed. And there I will devote my very special attentions to you, for the next thousand years or so. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Crystal," Peters said. "What kind of timeframe do I have to operate in?"

  "The one provided by the American election cycle. I don't care when or how you kill him, but Stark must not take the oath of office next January."

  "You seem pretty sure he'll win. Can demons see the future?"

  Astaroth shook his human head. "No, that is an ability we have never possessed, more's the pity."

  "But you figure his chances are pretty good," Peters said.

  "Being one of my brethren, he has certain... advantages that the other candidates lack. And he has that bitch Doyle working with him. She is almost as ruthless as he is, which is a compliment I haven't paid to a human since the days of the Third Reich. Yes, I think he'll win."

  "But what if he doesn't? Just for the sake of, um discussion." Peters had been about to use the word 'argument,' but decided that might be unwise. "What if I haven't gotten to him by election day, and he loses? Do you still want him dead?"

  "Oh, absolutely. Quite apart from the fact that he'd probably start planning for the next election immediately, which he might well win, the sooner that Sargatanas is back in Hades and enjoying my hospitality, the better I will like it."

  The way that Astaroth had uttered 'hospitality' made Peters glad that the demon wasn't thinking about him when he said it. "All right, then - either way, he's a dead man."

  "Very good." The demon let a gentle smile appear on his priestly face. "And once that's accomplished, we'll see what's to be done about you."

  He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Come on," he said, "let's get out of here. You have work to do, and I want to see if I can find a nun to despoil before I have to return home. I imagine all the altar boys are in bed, by now, alas."

  Chapter 13

  She knew that Morris was still alive; the chainsaw sound of his snores showed that as well as anything would have. Still, Libby Chastain knelt next to the sofa and checked his pulse: a little slow, but steady.

  By his own account, Quincey had been something of a party boy at college, like many of his contemporaries. But for him, Libby knew, graduating from Princeton had meant the end of keg parties and pub crawls and the beginning of his training to join the family business. And when your family's business involves dealing with entities euphemistically known as 'creatures of the night,' and the slightest mistake can get you killed - or worse - then self-indulgence just isn't an option.

  And Quincey had understood that - had known it down to his core. In the years they had known each other, Libby had never seen Quincey drunk, or high, or wired. He had never, to her knowledge, consumed more than two bourbon-and-waters in one sitting, and that only occasionally.

  Libby knew the kind of horrors Quincey had faced - she had seen many of them along with him. Nothing had driven him to this kind of mindless, solitary orgy of self-indulgence. She needed to know what that traumatic experience had been. Only with that knowledge could she help Quincey heal.

  She set about bringing him back to the land of the living - the body for a start, and then the spirit. The first of those two tasks was going to be the easier one.

  Libby Chastain sighed, opened her bag, and
began to sort through the contents.

  The Aquinas Institute of Theology in St. Louis is located in a building that is both short and broad. The two-story structure once housed the Standard Adding Machine Company, inventors of the ten-key adding machine - a fact considered important enough by somebody to have the building declared a National Historic Landmark.

  There is an elevator connecting the first and second floors, but Father Martin Finlay took the stairs. He liked to keep himself in reasonably good shape, and his heavy teaching responsibilities had cut significantly into his gym time. That, and the exorcisms.

  Finlay wore the white ankle length tunic and white hooded surplice that are hallmarks of the Dominican Order. The black beads of his 20-decade rosary clacked softly against each other as he walked the length of the second-floor hall to the President's office at the north end. As it happened, The Rev. Arthur Voytek was not only President of the Institute, but the Prior Provincial, as well. Finlay was glad of that - it meant that only one man would be pissed off at him today, instead of two.

  The outer door to the President's office was an impressive slab of polished mahogany. Finlay went through without knocking.

  Inside, a man in his late twenties, who also wore the robes of the Order, sat at a desk frowning at a computer monitor. He looked up when the door opened.

  "Good morning, Brother Frank," Finlay said. "I believe I'm expected."

  The young man glanced at a large appointment book that lay next to his computer. "Indeed you are, Father. I'll let him know you're here."

  Two minutes later, Finlay was sitting in front of Rev. Arthur Voytek, O.P., whose black hair, square jaw and rough-hewn face always looked to Finlay as if they'd been borrowed from some character actor in the movies. Here's hoping he's not gonna be playing the heavy today, Finlay thought, as he handed over the plain No. 10 envelope he'd brought with him.

  "Under the circumstances," Finlay told his boss, "I figured I'd best give this to you personally."